


Accidental Truth

by waitforhightide



Category: Fringe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Peter's POV - Third Person, Spoilers through 2x01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitforhightide/pseuds/waitforhightide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's thoughts on a particular FBI agent as she lies in a hospital bed. Set as a timestamp in the middle of 2x01, spoilers mainly for 1x23 through mid 2x01</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Wendy!](http://wendelah.tumblr.com)

Peter Bishop sat alone at the bar in lower Manhattan, the double shot of whiskey untouched in its glass, and he thought of how strange it was that with all the work he'd done in the past few months, this was the the one thing he was unable to grasp. Genetic mutants he could handle. Walter on LSD at three in the morning? No problem. Hell, even the thought of parallel universes, or alternate realities, or whatever the fuck it was Walter and Nina Sharp kept calling them—he thought he could even wrap his mind around that if he tried hard enough.

 

But Olivia Dunham dying?

 

No, he didn't think he could handle that at all.

 

He reflected on the half a year. There was plenty of surprisethere. Anger. Frustration. Confusion and disbelief abounded. But more than anything, she was there, with her serpentinite eyes and the hard-won smiles that made him think of the sound of wind chimes—her face was all hard lines, but beautiful when it moved. He found himself remembering the day she'd come to Baghdad to find him.

 

“ _I'm going to beg you as one human being to another. Your father may be able to save someone who is dying. Someone I care about very much.”_

 

“ _Sweetheart, we all care about someone who's dying.”_

 

He'd stopped calling her sweetheart when he'd started wanting to. Not as a snarky comment, but something softer. Something a lot less like the way her eyes snapped when she was scared, and the way he yelled at Walter for reciting the Fibonacci sequence for the thirteenth time in one night, and a lot more like the way she looked at him when she was sleepless and confused, and the way he felt when he saw her laughing with Astrid over one of Walter's terrible jokes.

 

The conversation in Baghdad seemed ironic now. His silver tongue had spoken without his permission, a sentiment that sounded good and meant jackshit, a stock phrase to get her off his back. The list of people Peter Bishop cared about was a short one, and with his mother gone, his own name ranked easily at the top. This Fed in the well-tailored suit, with the hard eyes barely masking the desperation in her face, seemed like a fly intent on landing on his sleeve. How was he supposed to have known how quickly she'd become important? He'd thrown the phrase out, quasi-intellectual and empty, hoping she'd chase it like a puppy after a bone. It wasn't until now, gazing without seeing at the light playing off the facets of the glass, that he realized he might have been onto something.

 

_Sweetheart—_

 

His mind was full of her: her voice; the way her body moved as she rounded a corner with her gun in hand, all power and steel resolve; how small she felt, trembling and almost naked in his arms; _I hope your guy is worth it;_ the salt water dripping from her blonde hair as she emerged from Walter' tank, gasping—

 

_we all care about someone who's dying._

 

That phrase meant so much all of a sudden, new weight added by the idea of one Olivia Dunham, lying unconscious and half way to broken in a hospital room less than a mile away.

 

As he knocked back the whiskey, the burn in his throat was accompanied by a deeper one in his chest, one he knew would linger long after the alcohol faded. He cared very much about someone who was dying, and the burn in his chest felt suspiciously like her eyes when they were angry, as if she was accusing him of not doing enough. _As if there's anything I can do. Anything_ any _of us can do._

 

He ordered another double shot, and drank to Olivia in silence.

 


End file.
